


The Other Side of the Wall

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight AU. Dean doesn’t find Cas in time to help Sam’s broken-wall psychosis, so Dean makes a deal with a demon to transfer the crazy to himself. Sam is left to cope with Dean’s hallucinations and mental decline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side of the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty heavy triggers for self-harm, but nothing really graphic, just the after-math.  
> Much love to cosmo_naught (LJ) for the beta.

NOW

It’s been too long since Sam’s last visit, although Sam can hardly be blamed for the lengthy time lapse. There’d been a werewolf pack in Pennsylvania that had damned near press ganged the entire town into joining its ranks. To what end, Sam will never know for certain, but he and Cas had been knee-deep in blood and fur for almost three weeks, and they are _exhausted_.

Sam wishes he could consider his time off from hunting a rest, but visiting Dean… well, it exhausts him in an entirely different way. Not that Dean’s a burden—no, it’s nothing like that. However much Dean may think he’s cornered the market in martyrdom, Sam knows that he can match Dean any day when it comes to what Sam will do and sacrifice to ensure his brother’s well-being, and he’d do so without a single regret.

Guilt, however, is an entirely different ballgame. It’s what haunts Sam as he witnesses Dean’s slow degeneration, knowing that Dean’s missing marbles were all used to fill Sam’s empty melon, never mind that Sam never wanted nor asked for Dean to do so.

Not that he’d expect any less from his brother, but Sam’s tired of Dean constantly being one step ahead of him on the sacrificial front.

The added guilt of showing up days—weeks, really—later than usual weighs heavy on Sam’s mind. He can feel the tension rolling thickly through his body, sludging in his veins like used motor oil, and it makes his footsteps sluggish as he walks through the front doors of Thornton Clinic.

“Hello, Sam.” The woman behind the counter gives him a sympathetic smile—the same expression she wears every time he comes—as she holds out her hand for his ID while he signs in. All the staff know Sam pretty well by now; up until three weeks ago, his visits had been fairly frequent. Plus, with Dean being a special case (not to mention his not-so-subtle “thing” for nurses), they _all_ know about Sam’s brother. But there’s a camera mounted in the corner and rules are rules, so Sam hands over his fake ID while the woman—Nicole—gives it a cursory look-over.

“He’ll be happy to see you,” she comments. There’s an ever-so-slight emphasis added onto her words, and Sam winces as he dates and times his entry, knowing that Dean has probably turned into a bigger handful than usual. He just hopes to find his brother mostly in one piece.

*&*

THEN

_It wasn’t like falling asleep. There was no hazy-edged assurance that this was still his mind, even if his subconscious sometimes wandered into the darkest crevices of his thoughts. Nor was there the lax-muscle, cotton-mouth feeling that came from drugs._

_No, this was nothing like Dean had expected, not even after his experience in Glenwood Springs. This was an invasion of both the mental and physical, and it was designed specifically to destroy from the inside out._

_The demon hadn’t warned him about any of this—not that Dean had really expected it to—but Sam hadn’t either. He’d never mentioned the helpless, intrusive feeling that made the inside of his skin itch with the disturbing knowledge that this wasn’t really his body anymore, that he no longer had control of the wheel._

_One of the first things Dean’s dad ever taught him was to trust in his own instincts; that while the rest of the world dismissed glimpses of monsters as tricks of the light, unearthly screeches as echoes of machinery, and chilling touches in the dark as products of dreams, the Winchesters knew better. They were hunters, and they knew the reality of the world, knew what was real and what wasn’t._

_It felt like a betrayal when Dean had to admit he could no longer tell truth from fiction._

_At first the images came to him in the form of Lucifer. Residual phantasms left over from his little brother’s personal fears and trauma that taunted him with guilt he already felt over Sammy and the Cage. It only took a week before Lucifer turned into the devil he knew, turned into the sickness he’d tried to bury deeper than hellfire and ashes._

_Turned into Sam._

*&*

Dean had only been in the hospital a few weeks when Sam noticed fresh scars peeking out from just below the hem of his hospital-scrub sleeves. Sam immediately turned ten kinds of pissed off and demanded to know if the medical staff were hurting him. His brother just shook his head, green eyes flashing like Sam should _know better_ , although the only other explanation made Sam’s anger tighten like stiff gears in his stomach, and he’d ordered Dean to show him _everything_.

Dean refused at first; his voice a growl as he told Sam to _mind his own fucking business_. But Sam didn’t back down from his brother’s dark scowl, and after he threatened to have the nurses bring out a straitjacket, Dean rolled his eyes, spit out more than a few colorful words, and finally pulled his shirt off, throwing it to the ground in an exasperated huff.

“You happy, Sam?” Dean asked sarcastically, hands fluttering nervously like he wanted to cover himself but knew it was useless. “Enjoying the peep show?”

Sam pressed his lips together while shaking his head sharply. Cautiously, he moved to sit next to Dean on the sterile-white, hospital-corner-tucked bed. For a moment, Dean looked like he was going to shove Sam away or bolt out the door. But Sam sighed quietly before Dean could make up his mind and gave his brother a look that was mixed up somewhere between concern and fatigue. Dean clamped his mouth shut and stared into his lap, his silence begrudging permission for Sam to explore the damage.

Sam’s fingers lightly traced the thin red lines, following the seemingly aimless slices that looked like a roadmap to nowhere… which was exactly where Dean was going these days. When Sam insisted on seeing the other half, too, Dean’s lips pursed irritably, but he didn’t say a word, just shucked his pants and threw them next to the discarded shirt.

It wasn’t like Sam hadn’t already seen his brother stripped down before. Living in small motel rooms with one bathroom generally meant giving up impractical luxuries like privacy and modesty. But this seemed so much more intimate than the times Dean walked bare-ass out from the bathroom to grab his duffle when there were no dry towels left.

The bruises on Dean’s legs looked like a macabre rose garden, and although Sam intended to be gentle, he found himself pressing his thumb into a few of the brightest blossoms, looking up as Dean made a face and valiantly tried not to make a sound when Sam pressed even harder.

The largest and deepest bruises were around Dean’s thighs, and as Sam’s fingers explored the area, he could feel the skin flush hot and the muscles beneath it tense under his touch. Dean turned his head away, and Sam could see the pink creeping up his brother’s neck, hitting the edge of his hairline and trailing up to his ears like it did when he was embarrassed.

“You some kind of masochist?” Sam dug his thumb into a particularly large orchid contusion, looking for a reaction, a recognition of how fucked up this was, even for Dean.

Snorting out a short laugh, Dean turned to look at Sam. “Like you’re not?” he challenged, canine tooth flashing as his mouth quirked wryly to the side.

“I’m…” Sam started then trailed off, not quite sure how to finish that thought. “I don’t hurt myself,” he finally responded.

“Yeah, well, no one else is lining up to do the job for me now,” Dean answered smoothly, pointedly avoiding Sam’s eyes and refusing to say any more about it.

Before Sam left, he informed the staff of Dean’s problem, and they regretfully answered that they knew about it and had tried to take precautionary measures. Sam wasn’t surprised that his brother had managed to find ways around their restrictions, but now the doctors were seriously considering strapping Dean to his bed when he wasn’t being actively supervised. Sam panicked at the thought of Dean being tied down like that, couldn’t imagine it ending well at all. So he refused to let them consider that as an option just yet and reassured the staff that he’d find a way to reason with Dean. He had to.

After that, Sam demanded that Dean show him his handiwork every time he visited. Dean unsurprisingly threw a short fit each time, snarling that Sam wasn’t his mother, his doctor, or his damn keeper. But at the end of every tantrum he’d end up with his clothes pooled on the floor while Sam methodically inspected each new injury.

“Dean… _why_?” Sam asked, over and over again, pressing down harder when Dean refused to answer. _Why, why, why?_ Dean’s answers were always vague and evasive, but Sam kept asking. Even after Dean threatened to punch the damn question right out of Sam’s mouth, Sam didn’t stop. It took quite a few visits, but he eventually wore Dean down enough for him to cut the smart-ass remarks and growl out the most honest answer he’d given so far:

“Damn it, Sam! I’m just—I need something normal!”

“Hurting yourself is _normal_?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Yes!” Dean spat back before correcting himself a second later, “ _No_.” He licked his lips out of nervous habit, made some vague motion with his hands, and explained, “I keep looking at all this smooth skin, and it just looks wrong. Shit, Sammy, there’s hardly been a time in my life when I _didn’t_ have some kind of bruise, break, or slice on me.”

Grateful to finally be getting some answers, Sam went to sit next to Dean who had finally stopped pacing and was sitting on the floor, his back against the edge of the bed. And even though Sam understood, knew just where his big brother was coming from, he still had to gently reply, “Yeah, but… Dean, it’s just skin.”

“Exactly. Just skin—a few marks here and there ain’t a big deal. And, yeah, I know I agreed to the _Cuckoo’s Nest_ lockdown, but I’m going crazy—or, uh, craz _ier_. I should be out there, working jobs and getting sliced and diced right alongside you and Cas. But instead I’m in here, finger paintin’ and talking about my fuckin’ feelings with Dr. Sharing Time.”

“And turning yourself in a Lifetime Original Movie is going to help how?”

“It’s not about _helping_.” Dean sighed and leaned into Sam in a way he hadn’t done since Sam was small enough to fit under his arm. “I know it’s fucked up. I do. But right now it’s the only thing I know is real. Everything else… I don’t know anymore, man. Most of the time I’m not even sure if I’m talking to real you or to the asshat mirage wearing your face.”

“I’m really here,” Sam assured him, his forehead cracking in concern as he realized how little weight his words carried at the moment. “You can feel me sitting next to you, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed easily enough, but he didn’t sound completely convinced. “You run a little warmer than hallucination-Sammy.”

“Hallucination-Sammy touches you?” Sam asked, confused. The words rattled in the air, startling dissonant once they were out of Sam’s mouth. He hadn’t meant them to sound wrong, but for all the problems he’d had with his visions of Lucifer, the devil had never once tried to make contact.

The shrug of Dean’s shoulders was unhelpful, but Sam hadn’t really needed an answer.

“Look, psychosis-crap aside, I miss hunting,” Dean said, his voice turning quiet. “And maybe this shit is fifty shades of fucked up, but right now the pain is the only thing that lets me feel normal. So just leave it alone, Sam.”

Figuring Dean had shared enough for the day, Sam didn’t push the subject. And, since Dean was obviously done _talking about it_ , Sam leaned in closer, knowing how much comfort Dean found in that contact, however much he may pretend otherwise. As that concept turned in his mind, Sam realized that the cuts and the bruises were just another manifestation of that tactile need. Dean had lived his whole life in a hands-on kind of way—given half a chance, would use fist over steel—and, after especially difficult hunts that left the both of them aching and bloody, Dean would often grin as Sam stitched him together again, insisting that the pain just meant they were still alive. Sam wondered if that was something their father had taught Dean or if his brother had started adhering to that adage all on his own.

Sam could feel Dean relaxing, molding himself to fit more snugly against Sam, and Sam put a fist on Dean’s leg, bumping it once before splaying his hand open and letting it rest against cool skin.

He could practically feel the conflict inside Dean, his insatiable need for physical contact warring with his shame for that very fact. Sam wanted to shake his brother and tell him to stop thinking so damn much;  this didn’t have to be complicated. But the moment was interrupted by a nurse opening the door, her voice cheerful and breezy. She wasn’t more than two steps in, however, when her words cut off awkwardly as she realized that Dean was mostly naked, hadn’t yet put his clothes back on after Sam had finished checking him over.

While Sam cleared his throat, trying to quickly come up with an explanation, Dean just grinned, slipping easily into his standard defense mechanism.

“Aw, hell, sweetheart,” Dean said, tossing the nurse a wink. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some privacy during a conjugal visit?”

“Oh—er, sorry,” she stuttered, walking backwards out the door, cherry flush rising on her cheeks. “I’ll just, uh, come back another time.”

“Sure thing,” Dean replied with a smirk. “Catch ya later.”

As soon as the door was closed, Dean moved over to put a few inches of space between them, although Sam knew that sudden cold hit Dean just as hard as it hit him.

“I’m getting dressed,” Dean announced, leaning over to grab his pants and shirt. “Unless you wanna play doctor some more.”

“No, I’m done,” Sam murmured unnecessarily.

The clinic supervisor and Dean’s psychiatrist stopped Sam on his way out the front doors, and their grim looks had him on edge even before they opened their mouths to ask if they could speak with him for a moment.

With apprehensive patience, Sam listened as the clinic supervisor brought up Dean’s lack of progress over the past couple months, and Sam had to consciously work hard to keep his expression neutral. Something about the supervisor rubbed him the wrong way, but not really in any way that set him on creature-alert. Mostly, Sam just found the man a little cold and impersonal, and he didn’t really like him, although Dean didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

When the psychiatrist cut in to add that Dean may actually be getting worse, that his hallucinations were turning more frequent and aggressive, Sam was unsurprised. “He seems to calm down the most during your visits,” the man added, “though that’s got us worried as well.”

“Why?” Sam asked uneasily, wondering if the nurse had said anything about what she’d walked in on over an hour ago.

The two men exchanged brief looks.

“There isn’t much that Dean’s been willing to share with us,” the psychiatrist said slowly, sounding a bit apologetic, “but from what little we can glean, he has an unhealthy perception of his responsibilities towards friends, family—and especially you.”

Sam had to fight down a smirk at the thought of these two men trying to get inside his brother’s gourd. He and Dean had been manipulating government officials, CPS workers, and authority figures long before they’d ever touched a weapon. It was probably one of the first skills their dad had ever taught them. It was no surprise that these two men had found Dean uncooperative, and Sam was mildly impressed that the psychiatrist had managed to figure out even that little bit of information.

“Dean’s my big brother. He’s always had to look out for me,” Sam explained, hoping they’d accept the simple answer but knowing they probably wouldn’t. “Often with good reason,” he added. “At least, when we were younger.”

“Yes, he’s hinted at that,” the clinic supervisor commented, his tone bordering on dry cynicism. Sam’s dislike for the man cut a little deeper as the supervisor coolly asked: “I don’t suppose you’re willing to share more details?”

Sam shook his head and the man shrugged like he’d expected as much.

“Regardless, we think your presence may be exacerbating the situation,” the psychiatrist said while the other man shuffled through some paperwork in his hands. “Dean needs some time to reflect on his own—maybe address this attachment issue.”

Sam squinted at the men, taking a moment to figure out what they wanted. Then, voice hard, he stated: “You want me to stop visiting.” He shook his head once, firmly. “I can’t do that.”

“No,” the psychiatrist hastily corrected. “Not entirely. We’re just asking that you slow down, give Dean some time apart, and force him to deal with things on his own without deflecting to you.”

That wasn’t likely to happen, not least of all because these two men had no idea of the true origin of Dean’s psychosis. But Sam had played this game often enough times to know to just nod and pretend to consider their point until they eventually left.

*&*

_He’d honestly forgotten how good his brother felt. Miles and miles of rich, browned-butter skin coupled with hands that switched far too easily between violence and tenderness._

_The Sam-that’s-not-really-Sam laughed and asked him if he’d like to feel both at once; an edge of pain with his pleasure. But Dean refused to be baited and ignored the monster wearing his brother’s face._   
_Not-Sam didn’t give up, however; was just as stubborn as the real thing._

_“Let me show you what could be,” it encouraged, hand resting on Dean’s thigh right where the real Sam had been an hour earlier. “He wants it just as much as you. Maybe more.”_

_“Fuck you,” Dean spat out. “He’s not like me.” But the words choked him when he realized that he’d played right into the fucker’s hands. A pleased smile curled Not-Sam’s lips; it was the first time Dean had ever acknowledged it in any way. It patted Dean’s thigh again, and Dean fought the urge to stab the illusionary hand resting on his leg. Tried to remember that there wasn’t really anything there._

_But as the days started to drag on, it got harder and harder to remember what the real Sam felt like._

*&*

NOW

Sam, of course, had no real intention of staying away. Unfortunately, he also hadn’t anticipated how long that werewolf job would take. So however unintended it was, it’s been three weeks since his last visit. Cas had popped in on Dean a few times, but the second time Cas came alone, Dean threw whatever had been handy at the angel and told him that he’d better bring Sam with him next time or else not to bother coming back at all.

Cas hadn’t returned.

Sam puts his hand on the door to Dean’s room and hesitates, unsure of what he’s going to find on the other side and worried about all the ways Dean may have changed in three weeks. It’s always strange how different Sam feels when his brother’s not around, faltering in his reactions and doubting his decisions when Dean’s not there to either back him up or play the contrary, pain-in-the-ass big brother. Sam’s never entirely sure how to define himself without Dean, had only just begun to try when Dean had picked him at up at Stanford, effectively soldering them back together again at the hip. And Sam hadn’t even really minded, just accepted the searing heat and slipped back into familiar co-dependency with relief.

However, figuring Dean’s been kept waiting long enough, Sam finally screws up the courage to turn the knob and assess the damage done while he was away.

Dean’s on the bed, facing the wall, his leg jiggling up and down at jackrabbit speed as he mutters things at empty cinderblock. Sam’s eyes are immediately drawn to deeper, angrier-looking cuts that now stretch all the way past Dean’s elbows. The slices flash bright red like fissures of molten lava cracking through the surface, and Sam almost wants to reach out and see if they’d burn his fingertips. But he doesn’t want to startle Dean, so he walks up slowly, cocking his head to the side and trying to listen to what his brother’s saying.

“You don’t know!” Dean’s voice rises a little, frustration coloring every word. “Okay, fine. I’m a selfish bastard. I can own that. But it doesn’t mean… okay. _Okay_! Damn it. Just leave me alone.”

When Sam clears his throat, Dean’s head whips around and his eyes go wide. There’s a gauntness to his face that hadn’t been there before, and Sam makes a mental note to bring Dean a cheeseburger next time. Obviously the hospital food just isn’t cutting it.

For a second, Dean seems relieved to see him, but the moment is short-lived and ends when Dean lunges at him, tackling him to the floor and closing his hands around Sam’s throat, hot fingertips branding dark bruises into skin and digging into his windpipe.

“Dean!” Sam shouts before the rest of his air is choked off. He tries to flip Dean off, but his brother’s had a lot of practice, knows how to angle himself around Sam’s torso and legs, pinning him down so there’s no getting up, and Sam slides backwards on the floor until his head bumps into the wall. He doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or the psychosis, but _fuck_ , Dean seems so much stronger than usual in spite of the walking-dead appearance.

One of Sam’s hands is caught under his own body, but the other one is free, and he tries to push first at Dean’s chest then his face, but Dean’s not going anywhere. His brother’s lips are pulled back in a feral snarl while his green eyes are burning bright, and that fierce image brings a strange, crazy rhyme rattling in Sam’s brain that he latches onto like it might _mean_ something.

… _In the forests of the night…_

The edges of Sam’s vision start to darken and blur, everything going hazy like he’s caught inside a thunderstorm, and he can feel an electric buzz of adrenaline surging him towards the other side. But then Dean’s hands suddenly rip themselves off of Sam’s throat, leaving his airway blessedly open so he can gasp and wheeze until his lungs swell back to normal.

When his pulse decelerates near enough to its regular beat, Sam rolls over to face his brother who is pressed into a corner, his hands wrapped around his legs and his forehead tipped into his knees.

“Dean?” Sam says in a hoarse voice, cautiously sliding close despite every self-preserving cell in his body telling him to do otherwise. But Sam ignores those instincts and carefully puts a hand on Dean’s head, feeling his brother jerk beneath his touch although Dean doesn’t otherwise move or turn his face. “Dean, are you okay?”

Sam waits. Stays silent while Dean grips himself tighter into a ball and Sam’s hand tentatively smoothes through the short crop of his brother’s hair, the edge of his fingernails sliding gently across his scalp.

Dean shakes his head and mutters: “No.” He laughs—a discordant, empty sound—and adds: “I’m crazy, remember?”

“I remember,” Sam answers through a few involuntary coughs. “You’ve got some belfry bats, that’s for sure.”

His brother finally looks up, green eyes blood-shot and stressed to an impossibly bright shine while he searches Sam’s face. “Sammy… is it really you?”

“Yeah.” Smiling awkwardly, Sam keeps moving his hand in his brother’s hair. “Sorry it took so long, Dean. Werewolves in Pennsylvania. But I’m really here.”

Dean nods like he actually believes Sam, looks tired and haggard like he _needs_ to believe him. So Sam slides his other hand across Dean’s shoulders while guilt and fatigue and fear all bubble and churn sickeningly in his stomach like acid. Dean stiffens for a second before grabbing Sam’s jacket sleeves to drag him closer and bury his head into the pocket of space between Sam’s arm and chest.

It’s unexpected, though Sam welcomes it. He wishes that Dean would let this happen more often. It’s been a while, but if Sam thinks back far enough, he can remember a time when there was nearly always some kind of physical contact between them. Back when they were both small and their dad hadn’t yet grown exasperated at their too-public affection, growling at Dean to start growing up and stop treating Sam like a baby.

Before their father’s displeasure had cowed his brother, Sam remembers following Dean around everywhere, grabbing his hand to make sure that Dean never left him behind. Not that Dean would have ever considered it. He remembers nestling himself in Dean’s lap while they watched TV, jumping on his brother’s back whenever they went outside, and curling up next to Dean for hours and hours in the back of the Impala, sleepy and often irritated to be on the road again, but—during the times when Dean wasn’t pinching or teasing him—content to have Dean’s legs under his head and his brother’s hand resting on the peach-skin soft nape of his neck.

His favorite memory, which also might also be one of his first, was back when he was very small and had to wait for Dean to come home from school. Nearly every day, Dean would burst through the front door, throw his backpack on the floor, and scoop Sam into his arms, letting the small boy sit on his hip and rest his head in the groove of Dean’s shoulder that felt better than Sam’s softest pillow. That moment had always reassured Sam in a thousand different ways that he’d been missed and Dean hadn’t forgotten his responsibility, even when he’d had to leave Sam behind.

At the moment, Dean’s crushing himself into Sam like he needs the same reassurance, and Sam regrets bringing up that werewolf job in the first place. No doubt it had just made Dean even more aware of how much he was missing out on while he was trapped inside this asylum.

When Dean releases Sam’s sleeves and pulls back, Sam lets his hands fall to Dean’s knees, resting them there while Dean presses his fingers into the inside corners of his eyes to wipe at the moisture beading in the grooves.

“I thought…” he clears his throat and shakes his head. His eyes shift to the side, latching onto some nothing spot on the wall, and Sam has all his brother’s tells memorized, knows Dean’s gearing up for a confession.  “I didn’t think it was you, Sammy. I really didn’t. But then you—you started going. I could see your eyes rolling back—I knew you were seconds away from checking out, and I couldn’t do it. Even though I was so sure it wasn’t really you, I just couldn’t.”

Sam nods once and judiciously curbs the impulse to rub the soreness around his neck. “Hey, it’s okay,” Sam reassures him. “I’m okay. No harm, no foul, right?”

Dean still looks as guilty as before but smiles weakly, probably more for Sam’s sake than anything else, and shrugs. Neither of them speaks for a minute, and then Dean breaks the silence with: “So… werewolves, huh?”

Sam really doesn’t want to salt the wound, but Dean brought it up, and he figures they could both use a distraction. So Sam gives Dean the details of the hunt. Tells him about the underground lycanthropic society, the infiltration of the high school football team, and the bright glow of the school as its reflection burned in the Impala’s rear-view mirror. It had been one strange case, and Sam had spent the entire time wishing Dean were there, cracking lame jokes and making the weariness of the hunt easier to bear.

Dean listens intently, shaking his head wryly at the elaborate politics of it all and chuckling at the small-town drama. Sam’s relieved to see Dean more curious than upset, and things start to feel almost okay.

Visiting hours end soon, and although Sam doesn’t want to ruin things when Dean’s finally relaxed, he can’t leave without _knowing_. When he opens his mouth to broach the subject, his brother’s eyes darken sulkily, and he shakes his head before Sam even speaks.

“Can we skip this today?” he demands, his voice low and harsh. “Just this once? I mean, come on Sam, it’s just been one long-ass day after another.”

And while Sam knows Dean’s comment is specifically designed to chip into that already mile-deep hole of guilt inside Sam, it doesn’t stop the words from achieving their goal as he thinks about Dean waiting in this room, days blurring into each other and cabin fever sinking in, so unused to staying in one place for any more than a few days at a time. But it doesn’t change anything, either, and Sam sighs helplessly.

“You know the drill,” Sam says firmly. “I gotta know the damage.”

“It’s _bad_ , okay?” Dean snaps back. “I’d say I’m pretty well damaged. So let’s just skip today’s session. You can get your strip-searching rocks off next time.”

Sam still shakes his head, and although he knows it infuriates Dean, he can’t leave without seeing the extent of Dean’s newest self-mutilations. Dean argues some more—pounds the wall once and flat-out refuses to move. But when Sam physically reaches down to grab at Dean’s clothes, Dean seems to realize that his guilt for almost killing Sam earlier makes it impossible to fight back now and risk hurting his little brother again. So he settles on glaring angrily at Sam while he pulls off his own clothes and slams them to the ground.

“Fine,” he says, cheeks flushed high and chin tilted up with whatever scrap of pride he has left. “You can’t leave today without getting a peek at this sweet ass? Go ahead, Sammy. Do what you want, just like always.”

This time seems more awkward than any other, and for a brief second, Sam’s tempted to tell Dean that he’s changed his mind. Almost tells that Dean can put his clothes back on and they can forget about doing this today. But he knows that taking it back now would only serve to piss Dean off to no end, and Sam’s made too big a deal out of this to back out now.

Sam checks out the cuts first. His fingers follow the lines around Dean’s arm and shoulders as he imagines how Dean must have stretched and reached to get these cuts as far back as they are. But down the middle of Dean’s back is unbroken territory—areas too far back for Dean to comfortably reach—and Sam can’t resist taking a moment to briefly slide his hand up that now-rare smoothness, just for a second, his fingers gone before Dean has a chance to snipe at him to stop messing around.

When Sam moves to touch the new bruises on Dean’s hip, Dean reaches down to clamp his hand firmly over Sam’s, settling his younger brother’s palm into the groove of bone.

Confused, Sam looks up at Dean’s intense expression. “Dean, I’ve gotta do this,” he reminds his brother. Dean nods slowly, a wavering expression on his face that Sam can’t quite nail down, and swallows something back before he speaks.

“Yeah,” he acknowledges; his voice rough. “Just… be careful.”

“Sure,” Sam agrees easily, despite having no idea what his brother means. Dean nods again and lets go.

Deciding that Dean’s suffered enough, Sam doesn’t push into any of the bruises this time, just moves Dean around and tries to count how many more contusions have appeared since the last time. It’s been too long, though, and Sam can’t be sure what’s old and what’s new. While he’s puzzling over an odd-shaped, purpling area of skin, Dean puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder and leans down heavily. A glance up reveals the same enigmatic expression from before, and Sam’s forehead creases in tacit puzzlement.

“Hurry up,” Dean says in a tight voice. Dean still seems more on edge than usual, and Sam can feel Dean’s panic in the shifting fingers gripped into his shoulder. Under his breath, Dean mutters something too low for Sam to catch, but it’s sharp and annoyed, and it’s not directed at Sam but to something over Dean’s shoulder.

When Sam’s satisfied that he’s seen everything, he lets go of Dean and starts to rise from his knees. Midway up, however, he notices something that causes a flood of red heat to creep up his neck and spread across his cheeks. By the way Dean’s breath hitches, Sam knows it’s too late to pretend he didn’t see, and neither one of them is able to look the other in the eye when Sam’s on his feet again.

Of course Sam knows that it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, is just a random burst of arousal that has Dean turning hard in his exposed boxers. Considering the cocktail of meds this place has Dean on, it makes sense that Dean’s hormones may be a little out of whack. Although Sam can’t be sure Dean’s even taking most of his prescriptions.

Sam wants to say something to diffuse the situation, maybe jokingly ask Dean which nurse has got him hot and bothered. But Dean still won’t meet his eyes, and Sam knows better than anyone when to push Dean and when to back away. So he steps back, gives his brother his space, and in a low voice murmurs:

“Sorry.”

Dean’s head jerks up to face Sam, and Sam can see the fury building in his eyes. “For what?” he demands.

“For you being here,” Sam says evenly. He waits a beat before tacking on the more honest addition of, “when it should be me.”

Leaning down, Dean grabs at his clothes and yanks them on. “ _Don’t_ ,” he growls, angrily shoving his foot into a pant leg. “Just… don’t. Something had to be done. I made a choice. End of story.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam answers unhappily. But Dean just gives Sam a narrow, heated look and shakes his head.

“You don’t know shit,” he tells him. “Now get out of here. We’re finished for today.”

*&*

_Dean knows this isn’t the mind he started out with, but he can’t quite recall what it used to look like. He thinks his thoughts used to have an order to them—lined up in a proper row like tin soldiers waiting for directions that came exclusively from him. But his mind’s long been ceded to the enemy, his once-loyal soldiers turned traitor as they give up secrets and turn their weapons against their homeland. His head is a battlefield, and Dean knows that he’s losing the war, that every day means more and more lost ground._

_“Look at him,” Sam had whispered in Dean’s ear when the other Sam fell to his knees. “Isn’t he beautiful? Soft, ripe mouth and eyes that always know too much. Can you feel how close he is, Dean? His hot breath on your leg? You can’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about all the things you’d like to do to that mouth of his.”_

_“Shut up,” Dean hissed quietly, daring to voice those few words aloud. The Sam on the floor glanced up, giving him a brief, puzzled look before turning back to his task at hand._

_“He wants it—look at him flexing his jaw, imagining just how heavy you’d feel on his tongue. He’d be so good, so eager to make big brother proud.” From over his shoulder, Sam leaned down, mouth inching closer and closer to Dean’s neck while the other Sam’s fingers grazed over his thighs. Dean shivered when Sam nuzzled behind his ear, the edge of his mouth running along soft skin. “Would you be proud?” Sam’s voice hushed to a gentle, velvet undertone. “Would you tell him what a good job he’s doing as he blows you? Reward him with Pop Tarts and trips to see the puppies at the pet store?”_

_Just as Dean was about to snap, to pull his brother up by his hair and either shove him away or press his lips deep into that warm mouth—he honestly wasn’t sure which—Sam rose from his knees, wiping the dust off his pants as he finished his assessment. Sighing in relief, Dean made the mistake of celebrating too soon, of thinking that he’d been able to fool at least one Sam._

_Looking down, Dean saw the sudden recognition in Sam’s eyes as his brother blushed and tried to pretend that he hadn’t seen. But they both knew. They all knew. Dean had fucked up again and he struggled to keep himself together; pushing back the hot prickle behind his eyes until he finally got the Sam that mattered to leave the room. When it was down to just the two of them again, he sighed and slid down in front of his bed, the black-hole inside his chest widening to feed on the hopeless, aching pain that Dean generated as easily as air.  When the remaining Sam leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder, Dean didn’t even have to look up to see the triumphant grin on his face._

*&*

Dean refuses to see Sam for the next few days, and leaves instructions for the front desk not to let _any_ visitors through. Sam knows he could easily get inside anyway, but he decides to let Dean have his space. It’s strange, though, to think of Dean somewhere that Sam isn’t allowed. Neither Sam nor Dean has ever had the luxury of an area to himself. Even when they’d stayed in houses with multiple rooms, Dean never fully grasped the concept of privacy, and eventually Sam stopped bothering to shut or lock doors since it never did him any good anyway. During his first few semesters at Stanford, Sam had pissed off more than one roommate while trying to figure out how the rest of the world regarded personal space.

Left with nothing else to do, Sam throws himself into more research, trying to figure out how to get his brother out of his deal or how to cure him or— _damn it_ —how to put the crazy back in Sam’s head where it belongs. Dean had been the one to make the deal with a demon in the first place. Sam never signed up for the transferred psychosis, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit back and let Dean slowly hemorrhage to death.

Even with both Cas and Sam in full-research mode (ignoring the rapidly escalating Leviathan problem), they can’t find a way to break Dean’s deal, and Death won’t even consider constructing another mental dam to hold back the waves of madness. When Sam decides that he’s waited long enough, he bypasses security and goes to see Dean.

He can hear his brother’s screams echoing all the way down the hallway.

The sound is chilling. Dean’s voice is hoarse and stressed, and it pierces straight to Sam’s core until all he can think of is sharp, invisible teeth and claws that clamp on tight, mercilessly ripping into his brother, slicing open skin and tearing apart his arterial tree like there’s a bacon-wrapped doggy treat inside, hidden just underneath soft tissue and pumping blood.

Sam’s seen Dean die over a hundred different ways, but it’s that one that still haunts his nightmares. It flashes behind his eyes every time Dean recklessly throws himself into a fight, gambling with his life like Sam doesn’t own at least half of the soul that Dean’s so willing to toss on the table like a cheap coat.

When Sam rushes into the room, he’s relieved to see Dean still whole and intact, but his relief is short-lived as he realizes the staff have finally made good on their threat to tie Dean down. Thick leather straps are cinching his chest, arms, and legs tight to the bed and have already left wide red chafe marks across his skin. Two hospital aides are pushing Dean down against the mattress, trying to keep him from hurting himself or getting loose, while Dean continues to thrash and push against his restraints.

“Get off me, black-eyed motherfuckers,” Dean rasps out, teeth bared while the bed lurches and shakes. “You think I’m gonna be on the table forever? You think I can’t do the same to you? When I get up, your sorry asses are gonna be the first things I cut into.”

The aides are checking the buckles, making sure Dean’s secure, and Sam has to repeat his question three times— _What the hell is going on?_ —before one of them seems to recognize Sam. He finally answers, explaining that the clinic supervisor has put Dean on self-harm alert and directed that Dean be strapped down and put on anti-anxiety medication during any unsupervised periods. The drugs, however, seem to have worn off much sooner than expected, even with a heavier dose added to the first, and they can’t pump Dean full of any more without risking his health.

“I told them not to do this,” Sam fumes while his brother’s still hissing out threats, detailing where and how he’ll cut them all up, which entrails he’ll pull out first, how much uglier they’ll look when he’s finished with them. “They were supposed to clear this with me first.”

The men shrug helplessly, having just followed orders. While one of them grips Dean’s arm tightly, the other pulls out a needle and injects Dean with what he tells Sam is a sedative meant to knock Dean out for a couple hours. As soon as Dean’s eyes roll back and his body goes limp, Sam starts unbuckling the restraints and pulling them off the bed.

“He’s just going to hurt himself again,” one of the men comments uneasily.

“Maybe. But you come near my brother with those things again, and I will snap every bone in your hands before you finish buckling the first strap,” Sam grits out darkly. The aides flash each other nervous looks then mumble something about checking back in after an hour or so before they hurry out. Sam pulls up a chair to sit next to his sleeping brother, mind racing through all the possible damage done to Dean and hoping that—with the belts off—Dean will be less panicky when he wakes up. As Sam watches Dean’s hands twitch and his face crease with anxiety that even sleep can’t assuage, the guilt hits him hard again. This madness was not meant for Dean.

Twenty minutes pass while Sam watches over his brother, and when Dean comes to, he moves a bit groggily but manages to roll off the bed and pull out a knife concealed somewhere beneath the frame. Sam’s not surprised to see the knife and would venture to guess it’s not the only weapon hidden in the room.

“G‘way,” Dean slurs, back braced against the wall while he glares as hard as he’s able and points the knife at Sam. “I don’t even—the fuck y’are.”

“It’s Sam,” he replies quietly, but Dean shakes his head, violently.

“No. N’way. We played this game ‘fore, ‘member? Climbed u’ the ladder, made me think I was… ahead—saw th’ fuckin’ exit like it really existed—then slid down th’ chute every time, back to the beginning. Game’s rigged from th’ start.” Dean swallows, sways a little, but he manages to keep himself upright, weapon still raised high, and his voice turns stronger. “I never left, did I? All my worst fears—losing my brother to some demon bitch while he fills himself up to the brim with her blood, letting him get taken by the Lucifer and thrown in the Cage, losing his soul and then his mind—all more painful than 200 years of being sliced into could ever feel. I’m still in Hell.”

“Dean—no,” Sam protests. “This is real. _I’m_ real.”

“Prove it,” Dean answers flatly.

Sam’s mind flips through several memories and old secrets, things shared just between the two of them, but they’ve both learned the hard way that shapeshifters, hallucinations, and even demons could get inside their heads and pull out their most private memories and thoughts. Their whole lives have been displayed like open books far too many times—in some cases literally—and even if Sam could think of Dean’s darkest, most deeply buried secret, his brother’s not exactly running on all cylinders at the moment.

“I can’t,” Sam replies regretfully. When he takes a step forward, he sees Dean’s eyes widen with fear, and it’s a punch to the gut as Sam struggles to find a way to convince Dean of the truth. “But it’s me. It’s Sam. Dean, please, just trust me.”

“Not on your life, Hell-bitch. Now back the fuck off or I _will_ find out what color you bleed,” Dean growls. It’s all bravado. Even from across the room Sam can see how hard Dean’s struggling to stay upright. Ignoring the baseless threat, Sam walks closer, moving until the tip of Dean’s knife is pressing against his sternum, resting right between his ribs. “I’ll do it,” Dean insists, though the knife doesn’t press any deeper. “I’ll run you through. I swear to God.”

“Then do it.” Sam straightens up, giving Dean plenty of space and opportunity, and looks down with a steady, regretful gaze. “But it’s still just me here, brother.”

They’re locked in a stalemate for a full minute before Sam sees his brother’s hands start to shake. Carefully, he presses a hand over the trembling wrist, gently pushing down until the knife falls from Dean and—like some vital, internal string’s been cut—Dean falls to the floor as gracelessly as a stringless marionette, strength completely depleted.

“Dean!” Sam kneels on the floor in front of his big brother, holds him upright and repeats his name until Dean’s eyes finally meet his. “Dean, I’m going to fix this,” he promises.

Dean’s fingers tangle themselves into the front of Sam’s shirt, weakly gripping the soft flannel fabric as his pupils pulsate, wavering in and out of focus. “Yeah,” Dean mutters, nodding a little. “It’s you. It’s gotta be. Feels so real. They tried, but they could never get all the parts exactly right, always had something a little off—your temperature, your fuckin’ scent. Everything down there just smelled like sulfur and burnt flesh.”

Sam doesn’t bother to reply to his brother’s babbling. Instead, he lets his hands slide around Dean’s back and pulls his brother into his chest. A wet circle of humidity quickly forms where Dean starts breathing into the fabric in front of Sam’s tattoo. Moving slow and trying not to disrupt the moment, Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone to call Cas.

The angel appears almost instantly, taking a few steps towards them and giving Dean an intent look like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Are you—” Cas’s words stop as abruptly as they’d started, and he cocks his head to the side. He’s only a foot or so away by now, and he frowns then seems to change his line of thought. “Dean’s not going to last much longer,” he says gravely. “His sleep cycles have been less than adequate.”

“Dean never sleeps enough anyway,” Sam replies in a low voice. “He might be able to last longer than I did. As long as he’s sleeping at all, we’ve still got time.”

Cas nods thoughtfully, and, to their relief, Dean somehow manages to fall asleep with his head right against Sam’s chest in a position so awkward that Sam wonders if Dean’s gotten a full night’s rest since the last time he saw him. Considering how rare it is for Dean to sleep in a room without someone else there, it occurs to Sam to wonder how well Dean sleeps when he’s alone.

Sam still remembers his first night at college. Despite how good the freedom had felt, that first night away from his family had been more difficult than he’d ever imagined. Images of all the creatures he’d ever seen or fought imprinted themselves on the insides of his eyelids, and he realized that no matter how far away he ran, he’d never be able to run from his training and knowledge. He knew too much not to wonder how his roommate would react to a visit from the supernatural or if anyone in his dorm would be prepared to take on a black dog or a ghoul or a witch, and he hadn’t slept at all for first two nights, unsure if anyone would have his back if some creature came calling.

As much as he hated to admit it, some part of Sam had also missed his brother and father enough to briefly consider going back, to swallow down all those words that had felt so good to finally shout in his father’s face and return to the comfortable familiarity of a life he already knew how to live.

But that was never really an option.

Dean is surprisingly light in his arms when Sam carefully lifts him up to cradle against his chest and move him to the bed. If he’d been conscious, Dean would be kicking up a fuss about Sam _fuckin’ carrying him like a child_ , but Dean’s not awake and Sam wouldn’t care if he was. While Sam’s tucking his brother in-between thick hospital sheets, Cas walks over and leans down to place his fingers on Dean’s forehead.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asks curiously.

“Trying to rearrange a few things,” the angel replies. “I can’t fix anything permanently, but I might be able to move things around a little and give him a few days of lucidity.”

There’s no flash of light or visible wave of power. It’s just a silent moment where Castiel’s expression turns intense while Dean continues to sleep. As soon as Cas removes his hand, Sam asks him if it worked. The angel shrugs.

“I think so,” he says slowly. “With his psychosis escalating so rapidly, I don’t know how much good it will do. He’ll slide back in a couple of days.”

“But that’s still a couple more days than we had before,” Sam replies more optimistically than he feels. He looks down at his brother, grateful to see Dean’s face finally relaxed in something that almost looks like peace.

*&*

It’s not until they’re walking outside the clinic doors that Castiel finishes what he’d started to say when he’d arrived.

“Sam, I think you should know something about Dean,” Castiel says while they walk side-by-side down the sidewalk. “In his current state, I don’t think your brother’s able to guard his reactions as carefully.”

Sam’s eyes cut sideways as he asks: “What kind of reactions?”

The sound of Cas clearing his throat is low and gritty, and his gaze falls down to the sidewalk. “His reactions to you,” Cas explains, a bit slowly. “The quickening of his pulse, the increased perspiration, the stimulation of his sexual functions… all physical signals of attraction and lust.”

Sam gives Castiel a skeptical look accompanied by a soft snort. “You think Dean’s _attracted_ to me?” He expects Cas to shake his head and explain what he _really_ meant, but instead the angel nods seriously.  
“Yes. There have been subtle signs over the years, but I was never sure until now.”

Sam frowns, wondering just how many years Cas could be talking about but not sure if he’s ready to know. “I don’t think so,” he says, shaking his head. “Look, Dean’s always had a hair-trigger libido. It doesn’t mean it’s directed towards me.”

“ _You_ are Dean’s trigger,” Cas says, tone startlingly sharp. With an impatient sound in the back of his throat, he adds, “I wouldn’t tell you this unless I was certain.”

“Why did you have to tell me at all?” Sam protests, mirroring the angel’s frustration. “I mean, okay, let’s say Dean really is attracted to me… and I don’t know, _maybe_ it’s possible. But we have more important things to deal with right now than my brother’s sex drive.”

Cas sighs but nods once. “Yes, that’s true,” he agrees, frown softening a little. They arrive at the car just then, although Sam doesn’t even bother getting his keys out yet. “But if you want your brother to get through this in one piece, you’re going to have to help him deal with the manifestations of these repressed psychological issues.”

Sam leans against the door of the Impala, grounds himself with the familiar steel against his arm and once against uselessly wishes that Dean had never made that deal. That Dean didn’t always need to put himself on the line for Sam, whatever the cost. The whole situation was fucked up enough already, even without Cas’s monkey-wrench revelation. “How am I supposed to do that?” he asks, unable to hold back the lingering irritation in his tone.

“Figure it out,” Cas says impatiently. “You need to find some way to get through to your brother while I confront the demon who holds Dean’s contract.”

“We’ve been trying to contact the demon for months,” Sam contends. “What makes you think you can find him now?”

“I have an idea of where he might be,” Cas replies, and it’s news to Sam. “But it’ll be easier for me to travel there alone. Right now you need to stay with your brother and help him work through this before it does irrevocable damage. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Before Sam can even begin to ask Cas what he means and demand to know how long he’s been holding onto this information, the angel disappears. The ripple in the atmosphere is a subtle shift that always makes Sam momentarily question whether Castiel had ever really been there in the first place.

*&*

Sam sneaks in Dean’s room early the next morning, well before visiting hours begin. As he closes the door behind him, Sam finds that he’s arrived just in time to see Dean finishing up some morning push-ups. The muscles of his brother’s arms are drawn tight as he pumps his chest up and down in a strong, steady rhythm. Sam can already tell that Dean’s much more coherent than he’d been the previous day, and when his brother jumps to his feet, Sam’s relieved to see more clarity in his eyes than he’s seen in a long time.

“Morning,” Dean grunts out. “Didja bring me any coffee?”

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Sam replies with an apologetic shift in his expression. “Though it looks like the angel juice may have done the job better than the caffeine anyway.”

“Looks like,” Dean agrees. He starts to put on a shirt but then throws Sam a thoughtful look and puts the garment back down. “Whatever mojo Cas worked seems to have cleared out the worst of the fog.”  
“You still having visions?”

“Yeah. But at least now I can tell the real sugarplums from the fake ones.”

Nodding, Sam continues to study his brother for signs of what Castiel had revealed the previous day. Dean doesn’t look like he’s lusting after his little brother—although Sam isn’t sure what he’d expect that to look like. He just looks like Dean. And while Sam can’t say that he’s ever had an uncontrollable burning desire to ride his brother’s cock, he also can’t deny that he didn’t come out entirely unaffected by their close-quarters childhood, either.

The uncomfortable thought brings to Sam’s mind various experiences with Dean’s potent sexuality. Reminds him of being twelve years old, waiting uncomfortably in the backseat of the Impala as the sounds of wet lips and muted sighs floated from the front where Dean had gotten himself stuck in some girl’s strawberry lip gloss. Makes him think of just a couple years later when he’d overheard whispered, private phone conversations that turned Sam’s cheeks red and flushed while at the same time the words raced down his spine, made him shiver hotly and press his ear more firmly to the bathroom door where Dean had locked himself inside. Although the most prevalent memories span several years of hearing soft, sliding scrapes and slick touches echoing in the dark between their beds, the sounds of which never failed to produce a similar, almost Pavlovian response in Sam that always made it feel miles better than when he did it alone.

That last thought brings to the forefront of his memory the first time he ever walked in on Dean jacking off, which—although he’d practically grown up to the sound—through some miracle he’d never actually seen before his brother’s seventeenth year.

Their motel room had been close enough to the library for Sam to walk there alone. Although he’d intended to stay there all day, the building had to close early for cleaning, and he’d been forced to go back to the motel after only an hour.

Apparently Dean had already made plans for all his alone time, as evidenced by the way he was casually spread out on his bed, Casa Erotica playing on the TV while his pants and boxers were tossed on the floor. Too startled and confused to know how to react, Sam had just stood in the doorway, eyes wide while he and his brother stared at each other awkwardly.

Dean had been the first to shake off the discomfort, smirking and shrugging lightly while letting his hand slide up and down—just a few more pumps—before his eyes fluttered back and his dick jetted out what seemed a startling amount of come. Dean made a soft, grunting cry then let go of himself and fell back against the headboard. Deep breaths expanded his chest, exposed by Dean’s rucked-up shirt.

“Guess I’ll put a sock on the door next time,” Dean huffed out with a chuckle. “Now close the door, Sammy, before the neighbors get a free show.”

Ears red, Sam did what his brother asked then spent the next hour sitting as far away from Dean as he possibly could, attempting to concentrate on his reading but unable to decipher what looked like ancient Babylonian to his foggy brain. His mind kept replaying the scene he’d walked in on, and he wasn’t really sure how he felt about it.

He was even less sure the next time he got the urge to beat off, and the mental picture of Dean with his hand on his dick kept popping into his mind in HD, crystal-clear quality—although  more out of curiosity than anything else.  Sam was sure that, just like every other physical activity in Sam’s life, Dean had known about this long before he did.

Their dad had taught Sam most of his combat and weapons basics, but it was Dean who’d had the patience to make sure Sam excelled. Dean who had literally shaped and molded Sam’s knife-throwing stance until the blade sailed through his fingers with steely avian grace. Dean who had held Sam’s shoulders and chest through the blast until Sam knew how to correctly handle a shotgun kick. And Dean who had spent hours practicing wrestling maneuvers, weapons fighting, and hand-to-hand combat with Sam until he was sure the boy could handle himself in any kind of fight.

Sam knew Dean couldn’t exactly put his hand over his and show him the motions. But he was so used to Dean showing him how, to Dean knowing what Sam’s body could do and handle more than Sam knew himself, and some inexplicable, deep-down part of him had wanted Dean to show him _this._ To share his carnal knowledge of things that were just starting to spark and form in Sam.

It’s hard to shake those memories while Dean’s shirtless. Even harder when Dean slips his fingers into the waistband of his pants and starts tugging them down.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, his nerves about as steady as a rippling pond.

Dean throws him an _are-you-really-this-stupid_ look while he drops his hospital bottoms on a chair. “Just getting ready for the inevitable frisking,” he says dryly, squinting over at his brother. “You ready to proceed, Officer?”

“Uh…” Sam hadn’t planned on doing this today, not with the memory of the last time suspended between them, not quite water under the bridge just yet. But Dean’s confusion has settled deep into the lines around his eyes, and as his expression starts to shift into insecurity, Sam quickly nods and says, “Yeah. Yeah, Dean, let’s get this over with.”

Dean’s surprisingly patient this time, and he doesn’t move or make a sound. As Sam’s eyes wander up and down his brother’s skin, the only new marks he sees are the stinging-red chafes from the day before. His anger boils to the surface again, and he knows it would feel so good to give in to it, to find the son of a bitch who had thoughtless tied his brother down like a fucking science experiment and make him pay for nearly breaking Dean in the process. But his anger’s useless at the moment, and cold-cocking the clinic supervisor won’t help Dean get any better.

Again, Sam wonders about what Castiel said, and as crazy as he wants it to be, he knows Cas too well to just toss that idea away. If there were any way Sam could get Dean to talk about any of this, he’d do it in a heartbeat. But Dean’s a master at burying things miles and miles underground, digging too far below the surface for Sam to have any hope of uncovering information in any conventional way. Instead, Sam has to feel around what Dean’s not saying, looking for hints as to what’s really below the surface. As much as he hates himself for doing it, all of Sam’s ideas start with him dropping to his knees and putting his hands on Dean’s body.

Nervous sweat makes Sam’s hands a little slick as he moves them over Dean’s skin, and he knows his brother can feel the difference, although Dean hasn’t picked up on exactly what has changed just yet. Hoping for subtly, Sam slides a thumb up the inside of his brother’s thigh, across fading starburst spots of purple, blue, and yellow, and traces the edge of his brother’s shorts. The muscles in Dean’s legs tense, but Sam doesn’t go further. Instead, he moves his other hand to Dean’s knee and brushes across a few bruises that will fade to nothing more than memories in a few days’ time.

“You composing a poem down there, Sammy?” Dean huffs impatiently, his voice sounding off. “What’s taking so long?”

“Just being thorough,” Sam replies absently then remarks, “It looks… better.”

“Yeah, well, it should,” Dean mutters.

When Sam fingers grow bolder, slip just under the hem of Dean’s boxers, Dean physically shudders and tries to jerk away. But Sam clamps his other hand on Dean’s hip to hold him in place.

“Hold on a sec,” Sam says lightly, voice deceptively soothing. “Just checking things out. Calm down.”

“Not really an option when you’ve got your hand up my shorts,” Dean responds, glaring down at Sam. “Look, those may be the family jewels, but that doesn’t mean you get equal access just ‘cause you’re blood.”

“I’m not—I won’t,” Sam assures him. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

Miraculously, Dean lets him carry on, and Sam carefully thumbs lightly-freckled skin hidden underneath blue cotton, his face close enough for Dean to feel his breath heating his leg.

“ _Sam._ ” Dean’s voice is a warning growl, but Sam ignores him. His hands start skating higher, trying to draw out a reaction while his brother is still reasonably rational. But it soon occurs to Sam that Dean’s got more control of himself than before, that all he’s really doing is getting his brother nervous, and Dean’s going to put a stop to this before Sam has a real chance to test Cas’s not-quite-insane theory.

Sam lets his hands fall away, and Dean releases a stuttering, relieved breath. But when Sam rises to his feet and slides his hand behind Dean’s neck, Dean’s eyes snap to Sam’s in alarm, his green irises nearly enveloped by wide panicked pupils

“What’re you—” Dean starts to say, but Sam leans in to bring his lips against Dean’s, pressing firm and sliding fast because if he’s doing this, he’s doing this all the way. There’s no logic to this moment other than Sam trying to gauge Dean’s reaction, hoping to see how deep this runs and how much truth there is to what Cas said. What he doesn’t expect is for Dean to give in almost immediately, mouth pushing into Sam’s, molding wet and warm around his lips until Sam’s whole mouth feels like a live wire. _Damn_ , Sam hadn’t expected much, but this feels a thousand times better than he would have ever guessed.

The pain takes him by surprise. A bright sudden flash on the left side of his face, and then he’s sprawled on the floor, holding his jaw with one hand and trying to ascertain which way gravity’s pulling him. When he looks up, he can see Dean against the far wall, having put as much space between them as possible.

“What the fuck!?” Dean fumes, moving to the corner and putting the bed in between them as well. “What the _hell_ are you trying to pull, Sammy? I finally got these fuckin’ hallucinations under control and you decide to pull this shit? Are you actually _trying_ to make me go even more buckets of crazy?”

“No,” Sam replies, still cradling his cheek in his hand. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the exploding supernovas from his vision. “Damn it, Dean; that _hurt_ ,” he says, his voice plaintive.

“You _molested_ me,” Dean states accusingly before sarcastically tacking on, “And I left my rape whistle in my other pants.”

“I didn’t _molest_ you,” Sam says, rolling his eyes at his brother’s dramatics and winces at the resulting throb of pain. “I _kissed_ you, Dean. And you kissed me back.”

Dean sputters for a moment, obviously unsure how to refute that. After a minute, his eyes narrow to sharp, angry points, and he demands, “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because I wanted to.” He’d meant to sound matter-of-fact, but his tone slips into a different key and it comes out bratty instead, Sam’s chin set stubbornly up as he gazes at Dean, daring his brother to just try and stop him if he decides to do it again. And, against all expectations, he _does_ want to do it again—is still lightheaded from how soft Dean’s lips had been, how obscenely perfect his brother was at kissing.

Dean just stares at Sam then closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall with a low thud. “Fuck,” he mutters and lets his head hit the wall one more time.

An empathetic, phantom pain makes Sam wince, like he’s somehow taking on the hurt Dean’s refusing to acknowledge. But the third time that Dean lets his head thunk back, Sam feels that throbbing sting pierce into the top of his spine, pain sharpening all too quickly into an anger that has Sam striding across the floor, watching Dean’s eyes snap open when he ends up right in front of him.

“Stop it,” Sam growls, grabbing the back of Dean’s head and dragging him forward, away from the wall. “Just… stop this, Dean. Hurting yourself isn’t gonna solve a damn thing.”

“Then what is?” Dean angrily retorts. “You got _any_ leads? Some way to fix this? Anything at all?”

“Cas thinks—”

But Dean’s eyes get wide and he interrupts before Sam can finish. “ _Cas_ thinks?” Dean repeats, his gritty voice reminding Sam of the time Dean dared him to taste gunpowder, all peppery sharp, metallic bitterness on his tongue. “We wouldn’t even _be_ in this mess if it weren’t for Cas. That feathery prick got himself some fucking illusions of grandeur then went and ripped up the wall we had to _beg_ Death for. So Cas can go screw himself for how much I care about what _he_ thinks.”

“Cas is trying to help!” Sam snaps back, irritated at his brother’s stubborn-ass tendencies. “And he’s the best shot I have at getting you well again! I don’t care right now what he _did_ , I will work with anyone I have to if it means we can fix you.”

“Like I wasn’t ready to do the same thing?!” Dean’s voices rises to match Sam’s volume as he snarls, “I looked _everywhere_ I could! I made a deal with that demon because you were running out of time, and we didn’t have any other options. So where was Cas when _you_ were climbing the walls? Where was Cas when we _really_ needed him?”

“You know where he was,” Sam says, and suddenly he’s just sick of this anger that hooks under his skin like barbed wire in curved, sharp steel that refuses to let go. He drags Dean towards him to tip their foreheads together, and Dean resists for about two seconds before he grunts in resignation and gives in to Sam’s unyielding grip behind his head. Sam thinks maybe Dean’s sick of being angry as well.

Dean’s breath is humid and warm in the small space shared between them, and Sam holds onto the quiet as long as he can, moving his other hand to hold both sides of Dean’s head, willing the both of them to calm down, to shake off this misdirected anger. They’re not really mad at each other, anyway—not this time.

 “Why are you pushing this?” Dean mumbles quietly, and Sam opens his eyes; knows immediately what Dean’s talking about.

“Because it’s tearing you up inside,” he answers. “And it shouldn’t be, Dean. It’s okay. Really.”

Dean chuckles cynically, and Sam can practically hear the thousands of self-depreciating thoughts crowding Dean’s already-full brain space. But before Dean can voice any of them, Sam tilts his head just a little to the side and slips his mouth down to stopper whatever stupid, half-joking thing Dean was getting ready to say.

No longer caught by surprise, Dean hesitates, indecision wavering in stock-still muscles, and Sam tries to find the right touch to make Dean give in. He runs his hands across Dean’s chest and arms, makes his mouth softer and wetter, and whispers “Please, Dean, just… need to do this, _please_ , let me,” right into Dean’s lips until his brother’s tenuous thread of self-control finally snaps and he pulls Sam in hard, gripping his brother tight into his chest and slotting their legs inside each other. Dean’s mouth opens with a helpless groan that vibrates Sam’s lips as he chases the sound with a wet slide of tongue, and somehow the feel of Dean’s mouth against his is even better than the first time.

Dean’s hands are everywhere, desperately palming flesh as if years of restraint and holding back have built up to this one moment, and Dean can’t decide where he wants to start, too many options and possibilities suddenly flood-gated open. His hands slide inside Sam’s shirt, moving up Sam’s sides and across his belly, brushing upwards to chest and neck, and Sam laughs a little when his shirt’s rucked up too high and starts straining tight under his arms.

“Here—let me help,” Sam murmurs against his brother’s mouth, moving so his arms and shoulders have room. Dean grabs the hem of the shirt and yanks it over Sam’s head, tossing it aside as his hands go back to exploring skin that he used to have memorized; skin that, at one point in time, he could have drawn a map of with every curve, every muscle, every mole. Sam can feel Dean’s desperate appreciation in the shaking tips of his fingers, and he shivers a little with the intensity of it as he feels something hot and thick gather like storm clouds in his gut, lighting him up from the inside until his whole body rumbles with each skin-against-skin contact between him and his brother.

Dean’s thumbs are tracing over the curve of Sam’s hipbone when he suddenly stops, hands tightening into fists as he ducks down and leans into Sam’s chest, muttering, “Damn it.” Dean’s voice is tinged with irritation and fatigue. “The fucker won’t shut up. He’s not as loud as before, but he’s still here. Won’t get out of my head.”

Tilting Dean’s face back up, Sam slides his lips across the line of Dean’s jaw, stopping to mouth at the soft dip behind the joint as he tries to distract Dean from the illusion whispering in his ear. “Don’t worry about him,” Sam says firmly and works his mouth down the side of Dean’s neck, feeling Dean’s pulse beating steady against his lips. “Concentrate on this. He’s not real. _I’m_ real, Dean.”

Dean makes a small noise that could be taken as agreement as he slants his head to the side while Sam slides his cheek onto Dean’s shoulder, nuzzles into the side of his brother’s neck while he marvels at how his head still fits in that junction as perfectly as it did when he was five.

Sam rests there for just a moment while Dean’s fingers come up to stroke into the nape of his neck. It feels nice, but Sam doesn’t want to stop now. He needs to see this through. So he lifts up his head and steps away, moving backwards until his knees hit the edge of the bed frame. Then he leans back, stretching himself across the mattress, eyes all green and gold invitation while Dean takes in a sharp breath, want nearly tangible in his hooded eyes. Dean starts to move forward then stops and shakes his head as though he’s trying to clear out the echoes of phantom fears.

Sam watches him carefully, certain that Dean won’t actually stop this now—not when it’s already gone this far and not when it’s obvious that Sam _wants_ this to continue. But he also doesn’t trust his hallucinatory doppelganger, and he holds out a persuading hand, gesturing for Dean to join him. “Come on,” he coaxes as he sees the panic and doubt creep back into his brother’s eyes. “Dean, please.”

It only takes that one plea for Dean to make up his mind. He climbs on top of Sam, mattress sinking down as he fits Sam inside his thighs and crashes their mouths together. Sam thinks it’s a good thing he’s never imagined what it would be like to kiss his brother since nothing could possibly come close to the real thing, to the way Dean’s all give and take, sucking on the edge of Sam’s bottom lip, wearing it bruise-dark and full then sliding a cool tongue over and in, pushing into Sam until his mouth is filled with Dean. It’s still not enough contact, not by far, and Sam’s fingers twitch with an impatient, frantic need for more.

As his hands start grabbing at skin, clumsy and stupid with eagerness, some mixture of amazement and victory flashes across Dean’s eyes while Sam slides his palms up his flushed chest, feeling the closing scars and fading pink lines under his fingertips. His mouth immediately latches onto the edge of a nipple, pink nub under his tongue and teeth, and Dean’s head tips back responsively, a deep, guttural sound punched from his gut. He reaches down to fist Sam’s hair, tugging him closer and letting soft hair slide through the grooves between his fingers.

When Sam’s hands start sliding onto the front of Dean’s boxers, he knows there’s no coming back from this. But it’s Dean, and somehow that gap’s not as big of a leap as Sam may have guessed. And while at one point Sam thought he’d been smothered by that lack of privacy, another part of Sam had missed the ease in which he and Dean wove themselves into each other’s lives.

As this last, final inhibition falls away from Sam, he realizes that he wants this. He wants to tear down the only wall that had ever really existed between them. It hardly seems fair that hundreds of nameless, meaningless girls should know this part of Dean that Sam had only ever guessed at from slick sounds in the dark and brief, accidental glimpses.

The whine slips out before he can stop himself. “Dean, I want—” He words cut off in a thick pant as he tugs away from Dean’s hands in his hair, hooking a leg around the backside of Dean’s knee and flipping them around. As he pins Dean into the mattress, his eyes are caught by the way Dean’s head tips back so his neck is long and exposed, how his brother’s back arches up and his eyes are smudged with dark promises, only a razor-thin edge of green left around large, expanded pupils. If Sam hadn’t known before how much Dean wanted him, there’s no way he can doubt it now, not with the way Dean’s body has instinctively shaped itself around Sam’s and his chest pumps up and down in thick, hot breaths.

They both reach down at the same time to pop open the buttons of Sam’s pants, both tearing open the zipper and forcing the jeans down until Sam can kick them off and stretch out long and tight against his brother, feeling heat radiate between them, drawing out sweat that lets them slide damp skin against skin with only the thin material of their boxers between them.

“What do you want?” Dean asks belatedly into the soft part of Sam’s jaw, his voice rumbling on his younger brother’s skin, and Sam can hear how open that question really is—how completely willing Dean is to do anything Sam could ever think to ask of him. When Sam stays quiet, Dean huffs out a wry chuckle, mouth moving across the planes of Sam’s skin as suggestions fall helplessly like overripe apples from his well-bruised lips. “Anything, Sam. Whatever you want. You wanna just stay like this, rock against me until you get off? You want me to jack you off? Want my mouth on your cock—let me find out what you taste like?” Dean’s brazen and exposed as his eyes promise Sam everything. His voice drops a little, turns into a hoarse rumble as he asks, “Or do you wanna fuck me, Sammy? Split me open on that huge dick of yours and ride my ass?”

Sam’s struggling to breathe against the onslaught of mental images of what Dean would look like in each suggestion. Each picture is more beautifully dirty than the last, and yeah, he wants it all, but Sam’s not sure he’s ready for all of that just yet, has never thought about this before, and all he wants in this moment is Dean. While Sam tries to find the air to speak, Dean nips and sucks droplets from his brother’s skin, hips grinding dirty like he can’t help himself. Sam can’t blame him. He’s churning against Dean as he feels the hard line of Dean’s cock dragging hotly against his own, smearing wet pre-come onto his belly and soaking into Sam’s shorts.

Sam’s mouth is watering at the thought of those wet trails, and he blurts out, “I wanna blow you, Dean,” immediately blushing in embarrassment, hearing his own words pushing everything into harsh reality, and he’s never done this before.

Dean jerks upwards, sudden and severe. “Fuck, Sam,” Dean groans, wryly adding, “Tryin’ to kill me here?” His brother’s tone is muted—almost reverent—and it’s enough to make Sam bold again, remembering that Dean’s already offered him everything and is more than happy to take whatever Sam wants to give.

When Sam wriggles downward, he hears Dean’s sharp intake of breath. The air hisses in jagged streams between his teeth as Sam mouths down the line of Dean’s stomach, letting his fingers graze the shape of Dean’s thick and hard cock through the cotton, touching lightly enough to make Dean shiver and scowl. But his brother doesn’t dare scold him just yet, is still staring down like it can’t be real. That looks plucks something deep inside Sam, turning him triumphant and pleased, like the first of a handful of times he’d ever beat Dean at an honest hand of poker, and Dean had been proud and baffled all at once, bemused by the idea that Sam could actually hide something from him.

That satisfied feeling resonates up Sam’s spine as bright as a harp string and pulls a grin to his lips as he leans in to lick broadly across the flushed head of Dean’s cock peeking out over the band of his shorts. His movement is rewarded with a groan from Dean while his head thunks back against the headboard.

Sam has exactly zero experience, fumbles more than a little, but he doesn’t hesitate. Hooking his fingers under the elastic, Sam slides them down Dean’s thighs then takes Dean in his mouth as deep as he can, enthusiasm helping to bridge that gap of knowledge. Dean doesn’t seem to be complaining, is muttering low encouragements as he slides his hand through Sam’s hair and leans his hips up to give Sam room to pull the boxers all the way off.

Dean’s already rock hard and skating the edge, which is a shame since Sam wants more time; wants Dean to just keep looking at him like that, like Sam’s the most important thing in the world. It’s only a few seconds until Dean’s inevitable, bitten off warning—“Sam, fuck, m’close, gonna”—and Sam stays where he is, one hand moving to latch onto Dean’s hip and steady him through the orgasm while the other keeps pumping.

Sam’s not expert enough to suck through the pulses of come, but he’s not afraid of getting dirty either. He pulls back far enough so that white streaks drips down his chin and lips, and his hands continue milking every last drop until his brother falls back, eyes rolling back and toes curling up as his feet nudge the side of Sam’s body.

Hurriedly, Sam kneels up, pulling himself out and pumping the dark-heated shaft quickly, shaking with how much he needed this. While Sam’s fist is still going, Dean reaches out to put a weary hand on Sam’s leg, brushing his fingers up Sam’s thigh and says in a hushed voice, “Come on Sam, that’s it, wanna see you, just like that,” and it’s that combination of touch and words that send Sam over the edge, make him choke out “Dean!” while coming hot and thick over his fingers. When he lets go, he falls against his brother and pants into Dean’s arm.

Neither of them move for a long time, even to clean up. Their limbs are tangled together, skin damp and slick, and as Sam’s head sharpens and comes down from its orgasm-high, he wishes he could stay tucked into that warm space, freeze time, and find a way to protect his brother from the inevitable slide back to insanity.

But they’ve already been gambling with the clock as it is. Are lucky no one’s come in to check up on Dean so far. When Sam pushes himself up, Dean twists around and brushes his lips against Sam’s, as if in reassurance, although when Sam hesitantly tries to find out how Dean’s dealing with what just happened, his brother shakes his head and refuses to talk about it.

After cleaning up and getting dressed, there’s nothing left for Sam to do but leave—with a promise to come back tomorrow.

*&*

By the time Sam shows up the next day, it’s already over. Dean’s whole again and Cas is… comatose. Neither Sam nor Dean understands what happened; they only know that Castiel was somehow able to get the demon to call off Dean’s deal while at the same time taking on the psychosis himself. They don’t know the price (Sam still doesn’t know _Dean’s_ price), but they do know that nothing from a demon ever comes free, and the whole thing’s starting to feel like a game of musical chairs where no one ever wins.

Dean’s pissed. But so is Sam.

The anger and guilt build up too fast and too hot for them to stay still for too long, and, and after making sure Castiel’s accommodations are in order, they throw themselves into hunting again, working through their issues Winchester-style with a gun in one hand, a knife in the other, and the road a constant blur under their feet. It takes a couple weeks of blood, sweat, and gore before the red fades enough from Sam’s vision to let him deal with the other reason for the electrical currents thrumming under his skin.

Not willing to risk a hunt with this kind of distraction, Sam slips his voiceless question into the moments in-between. Places a warm hand on Dean’s back when they enter their motel room for the night, slowly and carefully brushes the dirt from Dean’s hair after they finish re-burying a scorched grave, and, growing bolder the longer Dean pretends to be oblivious, practically sits in his brother’s lap when they share a diner booth for lunch and receive several knowing glances from staff and other patrons. Dean doesn’t seem fazed by any of Sam’s attempts to get his attention, and after a few days Sam decides that if Dean’s determined to ignore him then he’ll just have to force his brother into a conversation he _knows_ Dean doesn’t want to have.

But, as it turns out, Sam didn’t need to worry.

Dean does things in his own way and time like usual. He waits until they get back to their room after a long, tiring day and grabs Sam’s arm, shoving him on the bed and sliding himself over his younger brother. They both fall into this as naturally as breathing, their movements in sync like they’ve been doing this for years. When they’re finished and Sam’s once again covered in come and sweat and dizzily leaning into his brother’s shoulder, he thinks about trying to analyze things for exactly two seconds before Dean—being scarily good at reading his thoughts—nudges him in the side and sleepily orders:

“Turn off that big-ass brain of yours and go to sleep. We’ve both had enough psychoanalytic shit to last us the rest of our lives.”

Sam thinks his brother’s probably right, although he’d cut off his right arm before he said as much, so he closes his eyes, nudges himself further into his brother’s warmth, and shuts off the last of the voices in his head.


End file.
